What am I, in kindergarten?

Whatever, bygones. I survived. Now I’m in my room, sprawled on my bed, finishing the last of my initial sketches. This new mattress doesn’t creak like my one back home. Normally that would be a plus, but it’s become part of my process, my creative soundtrack, to listen to the rhythmic squeak as I bounce my feet on the bed.

To fill the void, I pull on my headphones and rock out to Carman Ten’s latest album. My stylus flies across the screen, leaving a trail of pixels in its wake. The faster the beat of the music, the faster my fingers fly.

I’m just putting the finishing touches on the last cell when my door swings open.

“Mom!” I shout, yanking off my headphones and leaping off the bed.

I make sure to toss my tablet face down.

She looks totally unapologetic. “I knocked three times.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to barge in.”

This never used to happen. Before The Incident my privacy was sacred. Mom and Dad wanted to be the kind of “cool” parents who didn’t dig into their kids’ personal stuff. They gave me as much freedom and independence—with school, friends, life—as I wanted.

Getting arrested has a way of erasing trust.

“What?” I demand when she just scowls at me.

“We’re late,” she says.

I frown back at her. “For what?”

“Dinner.” She turns away. “At the Dorseys’.”

“Great,” I mutter. I’d totally forgotten.

“You have five minutes,” Mom says as she disappears down the stairs.

I give the idea of changing clothes a total of three seconds and then dismiss it completely. We’re not going to a fancy restaurant. My school clothes are totally suitable.

A breeze wafts in through my open window, and I decide to add a black hoodie to my mourning clothes. I give myself two minutes in the bathroom to run a brush through my hair and swipe on some intense red lip gloss, mostly because I think it will bother Mom. And maybe partly because I’m hoping it will bother Tru.

I’m ahead of deadline, but drag my feet a few more minutes, just to make her wait. Turnabout’s fair play.

I don’t emerge until she’s called my name twice.

“Coming,” I shout as I thunder down the stairs. “Let’s get this o—” I freeze when I see a casserole dish in her hands. “What is that?”

“Peach cobbler.”

“Did you buy it?”

“No, I made it,” she says, as if her baking is an everyday occurrence.

I can count the number of times she’s baked back home on zero hands. Mom’s idea of home cooking is eating takeout in the dining room. Since when does she know how to do more with an oven than reheat leftovers?

I spend the short walk next door inhaling the alluring smell of peaches and sugar and throwing sidelong glances at the stranger next to me. Who is this woman and what has she done with my never-met-a-takeout-menu-she-didn’t-love mother?

Mom doesn’t bother knocking, just pushes open the door and calls out, “We’re here. Sorry we’re late.”

Mrs. Dorsey comes bustling into the front. “Lizzie,” she cries, pulling my mom into a huge hug.

Mrs. Dorsey hasn’t changed since the time she and her husband came to New York when I was like seven. Still tiny and intense, with blunt bangs, perfect skin, and a rough voice that is totally at odds with her delicate appearance.

“Oh Miko,” Mom says, “it’s so good to see you.”

They hug for longer than a normal, good to see you greeting. When Mom pulls away, Mrs. Dorsey’s eyes glisten with emotion.

She turns to me. “Sloane?” Her gaze takes me in from head to toe. “No way.”

I shrug. What? I’m supposed to say, Yes way?

I’m not that cliché.

“Hey Mrs. Dorsey.”

“Mrs. Dorsey?” She makes a hissing sound with her teeth. “You call me Miko.”

She wraps me in just as tight a hug as she did Mom. I awkwardly hug her back. I am momentarily transported by the smell of orange blossoms.

“Come in, come in,” she says, waving us inside. She takes the cobbler from Mom. “David is grilling out back.”

We follow her down the hall, into the kitchen, where she sets the cobbler on the counter. The thing that stands out to me as we walk through the house is how it looks just as clean and perfect as ours next door. Only we’ve lived in ours for just a few days and we don’t have a teen boy with us. No dust, no scuffs, not even a stray pair of shoes by the front door. The Dorsey house is like a showroom.

“Truman!” she shouts.

When there is no immediate response, she yells his name again.

Still nothing.

She shakes her head. “That boy. Come, let’s see what David has cooking.”

I eagerly follow outside, wanting to escape this eerily perfect house. But the back porch, a mirror image of ours next door, smells like burning meat. My stomach rolls. I wish I could bury my nose back in Mrs. Dorsey’s orange blossom scent.

“It smells delicious,” Mom says.

Mr. Dorsey turns at the sound of her voice. “Elizabeth,” he says with a warm smile. “You made it.”

He is older than I remember. Then again, I haven’t seen the Dorseys in more than a decade. But where Mrs. Dorsey looks exactly the same, Mr. Dorsey has a lot more gray in his hair and crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. He still has the stiffest, straightest posture I have ever seen. If I were one to be self-conscious, I would un-slump a little.

Thank goodness I’m not.

I look past him to the grill and see rows of thick steaks. Only steaks. Great. Looks like side dishes for dinner.

Mr. Dorsey turns his attention to me. “Sloane, you’re all—” He stops, glances over his shoulder at the grill, and then back at me. “Something wrong?”

“Um, no,” I say, trying not to sound totally rude. “It’s just…I’m a vegetarian.”

“Since when?” Mom asks.

Is she kidding? “Since the eighth grade.”

She stares at me, unblinking, like she’s never seen me before. God, if she doesn’t even know I’m a vegetarian, then maybe she hasn’t.

And here I thought we had a good relationship before The Incident.

“I just thought you really liked vegetables,” she finally says.

I bite back whatever accusations I want to throw her way. Embarrassing her in front of her friends won’t win me any Mom points, which means it won’t get me any closer to closing our deal. It won’t get me any closer to home.

“I think I have some portobello steaks in the garage,” Mrs. Dorsey says. “I’ll go get them.”

She’s gone for a couple minutes, and I stand silent as Mom and Mr. Dorsey make it’s-been-so-long small talk.

In these kinds of awkward gatherings, I usually have Dylan to joke around with. He and Dad should be here. No, Mom and I should be back home, but, barring that, Dylan and Dad should be here. But where Mom could take a leave of absence from the firm, Dad couldn’t leave his job for this long.

Which gives me even more motivation to satisfy the requirements of Mom’s deal. It’s not just my life that’s been torn apart by this move. It’s my entire family’s.

By the time Mrs. Dorsey returns with the mushrooms, I’ve actually resorted to hoping Tru will show up. Anything to distract me from this soul-crushing tedium.

“Sloane,” she says after handing them to her husband, “we have pink lemonade in the kitchen. Would you go pour glasses for everyone?”

“Sure,” I say, thankful for the excuse to escape.

I slip inside. It takes me all of a few seconds to fill the six glasses, but the last thing I want is to go back out on the porch. Between the small talk and the smell of burning meat, it’s like the seventh circle of hell. So I grab a glass of lemonade and lean back against the counter in a spot where they can’t see me from the porch.

I should have brought my tablet. At least then the night wouldn’t have been a total waste. I upend my glass and gulp the contents.

“Slow down, New York. No one wants to see that pink lemonade again.”